


jewel tones

by beautifuldisgrace



Category: Purple Hyacinth - Ephemerys & Sophism (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst, Childhood Memories, Flower Symbolism, Fluff, M/M, Minor Character Death, Reunions, Unrequited Crush, and too many similes, feelin' like walt disney with all the parents that die in this fic, i lure you in with the fluff then BAM someone dies, obscure victorian symbolism, perhaps too much symbolism, take a shot every time i describe someone's eyes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:48:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28318491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautifuldisgrace/pseuds/beautifuldisgrace
Summary: He looks up at him, and Dylan is breathless for a moment. Once, his father had told him that true blue didn’t exist in nature, that the closest could only be indigo, an incomparable imitation of the real thing. And for the longest time, he agreed. But he had never known how completely, absolutely wrong he was.Blue exists, and it pools in this boy’s gaze like molten sapphires.
Relationships: Dylan Rosenthal & Lauren Sinclair, William Hawkes/Dylan Rosenthal
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	jewel tones

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Missterryrighter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missterryrighter/gifts).



> merry crisis <3 this was a secret santa gift for [missterryrighter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missterryrighter/pseuds/Missterryrighter)!
> 
> fic soundtrack: [merry-go-round of life [slowed + reverb]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HWzPom9ik-g)

_ i // blue _

The first time they meet, all he remembers is the hue of his eyes. 

He’s no stranger to jewel tones--purple like orchids, red like carnations, and green like the twisted ivy vines that crawl up stone turrets. But blue? Blue is rare, captured only in the heart of a flame, in the fleeting wings of a butterfly, gone in an instant.

They study each other, two boys in an open field, both speechless but with words on the tips of their tongues. Sunlight peeks over the horizon, painting rosy streaks on the canvas of the sky.

When the silence shatters, it shatters like glass in the path of an arrow, bound to break.

“What are you doing here?” Dylan asks.

The other boy crosses his arms. “I could ask you the same question.”

Dylan shrugs. “I come here a lot. This is probably the only place in the city where wildflowers grow. People are so fussy about weeds.”

“What are you picking them for?” 

Looking down at the small bouquet in his hands, Dylan sighs. “They’re for my mother,” he says. “She’s feeling a little sick, so I’m getting these to cheer her up.”

“Oh,” the boy says softly. “Sorry if I sounded rude. I just needed to get away from home. I thought I was going to be alone here.”

He looks up at him, and Dylan is breathless for a moment. Once, his father had told him that true blue didn’t exist in nature, that the closest could only be indigo, an incomparable imitation of the real thing. And for the longest time, he agreed. But he had never known how completely, absolutely wrong he was.

Blue exists, and it pools in this boy’s gaze like molten sapphires.

“No worries,” he replies, though he isn’t sure if the other boy can hear him. Wind whips around the folds of their jackets, rustling leaves in a symphony of delicate whispers.

He wants to say something else, but he doesn’t. He wants to console the boy with eyes like the river on a cloudless day, to tell him that it’ll all be okay, but he doesn’t. Instead, he turns on his heel and walks away, his head bowed.

\---

Fate smiles upon them the second time they meet.

“Dylan!” Lauren calls out. “There’s someone I want you to meet!”

“Hold on!” he shouts. “I’ll be there in a minute!” 

Squatting down, he gently pats the soil of the ceramic pot. He picks up his spade and deftly makes small divots in the dark earth, plopping marigold seeds in every hole. He works quickly, precisely, and when he’s done, he looks proudly at his hands. The hands of a future doctor.

"Dylaaan!" Lauren sings. He turns around, peeling the dirt-encrusted gloves from his fingers. “Meet Will!”

He registers the figure standing next to his best friend. Blond hair, tidy gray coat, gray pants. He opens his mouth to say hello, then does a double take. Those eyes... 

“You-” they say together in shock.

“Wait, do you two know each other?” Lauren looks between them, quirking an eyebrow.

“Not really,” Will says, and for some reason, that hurts Dylan more than the sharp prick of a rose thorn.

“Then I get to introduce you!” Lauren beams. “I just know we’re all going to be great friends!”

\---

The third time they meet is no accident.

“Picking wildflowers again?”

Dylan jumps at the sound of the voice, scattering tiny blossoms across the surface of the stream. They’re carried away by the current, wisps of white that float like ghostly touches on the clear water. He turns to see Will, bundled for the winter in a thick woolen coat and scarf.

“Oh, it’s you. You scared me!”

Will winces. “Sorry.” He looks down at his feet. “I didn’t believe you at first, but you were right.”

“About?” he replies, frowning.

“The flowers. They really don’t grow anywhere else.” He spreads his arms like a bird mid-flight. “This park must be truly special, huh?”

Dylan hums in agreement. “I suppose.” 

“Are they for your mother?” Will asks, gesturing to the stems in his grasp.

Nodding, he says, “they’re asters. Her favorite.”

“Has she been feeling better?”

A pause.

“No.”

“Oh.” Will buries his face in his scarf. “Sorry.”

With a weary smile, Dylan turns to him. “Stop doing that.”

“Stop doing what?”

“Apologizing. It’s not your fault she’s sick."

“Sorry, it’s a reflex.” Will shakes his head. “Gah! Why can’t I do anything right? I’m such a worthless person.”

“Hey,” he pats his shoulder in a reassuring sort of way. “Habits are hard to break, and not just for you, but for everyone. You’re  _ not _ worthless. Making mistakes makes us human.”

“Try telling that to my father,” Will mumbles.

“Is that why you’re here? To escape?”

Will’s eyelashes flutter in surprise. For some reason, Dylan feels the urge to brush them lightly with his knuckles, to wipe away invisible tears.

“Yes.”

They’re trapped in this dance, this waltz between conversation and the lull of quietude. 

“My dad always says that nature is healing.” Dylan thumbs the milky petals of the flower, satiny to the touch. “It’s a reminder of how beautiful life can be.” 

Will’s mouth twists in distaste. “It all looks pretty brown and gray to me.”

Indeed, the weather is just a droplet short from storming, and the autumn chill drains life from the earth, leaving dry husks in its place. But Dylan simply laughs.

“Not if you know where to look. Follow me.”

Pushing past curtains of willow, they step over worn river stones and mossy roots. A knot of apprehension starts to form in Dylan’s stomach. He pushes the feeling aside and hikes onward, Will in tow. 

He stops in a cramped, treeless clearing. There is barely enough room for the two boys to stand side-by-side with their arms outstretched.

“Where are we?” Will asks.

“Lie down,” Dylan instructs.

“What? But the ground’s wet! And the sun’s almost gone down. Oh God, we should be getting back soon! My father is going to be so upset...” Will’s shoulders drop in defeat. “Whatever. I guess it’ll only just delay his fury.” He settles himself on the ground, back pressing uncomfortably against the damp leaves. “I am so, so dead,” he whispers, closing his eyes.

Dylan pokes him in the arm. “Look.”

They crane their necks to catch a glimpse of ephemeral gold. 

“Fireflies,” Will breathes. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen one.” He looks at peace, the lines of his face softened by the gentle glow of the sunset.

They watch the glowing bugs, snippets of light that dot the darkening woods.

“I’ve heard that if you wish on a firefly, your wish will come true,” Dylan says quietly. 

“Is that so?” Will clasps his palms together in a prayer, speaking almost directly into his hands as he pleads, “Then please don’t let my father get angry at me again. Please, please, please.”

Dylan looks away, suddenly uncomfortable, as if he were witnessing something very private. Sitting on his knees, he stares upward, focusing on the winged stars that wobble in uneven orbits.

_ Please _ , he thinks,  _ let Mom recover from her illness _ .

\---

Fate may be on their side, but it has a funny way of showing it. Any philosopher worth their years could tell you, fate is a fickle thing. It plays favorites, strings you along like beads on a necklace, only to toss you aside like a paper chain when it’s bored. Cat and mouse, horses on a merry-go-round, so the cycle spins.

The funeral of Penelope Rosenthal is a somber affair, a quiet gathering in the dead of December. Dylan’s hands tremble as he places flowers on her grave.

White asters.

Orange marigolds.

Pink carnations.

And yellow chrysanthemums.

\---

Will finds him in the hidden sanctuary where they shared their wishes, bared their hearts.

“Hey,” the blond boy says. Dylan faces away from him, but he can hear the snapping of twigs drawing closer. “I knew I’d find you here.”

Will sits down next to him and places his jacket around Dylan’s shoulders. “Aren’t you cold, sitting here?” he asks. “I know your father said you weren’t talking, and you don’t have to. But we’re worried about you. Your father, Lauren,” he pauses, “and me.

“I wasn’t sure how to make you feel better, but I got you some flowers,” Will says, offering him an array of buds and stems tied neatly in a ribbon. Dylan takes it, stony-faced, then fights the urge to laugh.

“My dad didn’t help you pick these, did he?”

Will’s eyes widen. “No, why?”

“Yellow hyacinths,” he says, pointing at the blooms, “mean jealousy. Tansies are a declaration of war. And calla lilies, they mean beauty. So all in all, this means, ‘I’m jealous of your looks, so I’ll declare war on you.’”

“Oh no!” Horrified, Will claps a hand to his mouth. “I just thought they looked pretty together.”

Dylan smiles. “It’s okay. You still have a lot to learn about flower language. But thanks anyways.”

“Do you think you could teach me?”

“Hm?”

“About flower language?”

“Sure,” Dylan says, tipping his cap. “As of now, Dylan Rosenthal’s School of Flower Language is in session! But don’t think I’ll let you off easy because we’re friends. You’ll have tests every day, and homework every night...”

“What?” There’s mirth in Will’s voice as he chases after him. “I didn’t sign up for extra homework!”

“Fine! I’ll let you skip the homework today if you can catch me!”

“You’re on!”

\---

Sometimes Dylan wishes Lauren weren’t so incredibly perceptive. Twelve years of friendship, and she knows him better than he knows himself.

“Dylan?” she says, wiggling a fuzzy dandelion in the air. They’re in the same park where he met Will for the first time, though a year has passed since. “Do you have a crush on anyone?”

He spits out the stalk of wheat he’s been chewing on. “What are you talking about?  **I don’t have a crush on anyone** ,” he says, trying to regain his composure. He thinks he’s pulled it off, fooled her, until he remembers that Lauren can hear lies. 

“Okay, then.  **I believe you** **.** ” She dusts her hands on her yellow dress. “Let’s go help your dad load his truck!”

He nods, plastering a grin on his face. “Race you there!” he declares, but his mind is racing, too. _Why did she lie?_ _She changed the subject, and I should thank her for that. But does she know who-_

“Hey, Will!” Lauren yells. The blond boy stands outside the iron gates of the Hawkes mansion, waving to them cheerfully. “Are you going to the opening ceremony?”

“Yeah, we’re going to Allendale a little early to say goodbye to Rafael. How about you?” 

“We’re going to help Mr. Rosenthal set up flowers, so how about we all meet up after to go to the ceremony?” she proposes. Lauren casts Dylan a knowing smile.

“Sure! See you, Lauren! See you, Dylan!” There’s something about the way he says his name, full of warmth, that makes Dylan want to crystallize the moment, to wear it like a brooch over his heart, a treasure he’ll keep forever. 

But he can’t.

And he won’t.

_ ii // red _

The fire spreads violently over the timber planks of the boarding platform, consuming everything in its path. Dylan drops to the ground, coughing as black smoke forces its way into his lungs. His ears ring from the explosion.

“Dad!” he chokes out. “Dad!” 

Someone screams, a high-pitched, guttural sound. A cold hand wraps around his ankle. He looks down and cries out in shock.

A body--barely alive. A boy his age with flaxen hair covered in soot. His torso is trapped under a fallen pillar almost as thick as he is tall.

Dylan freezes.  _ Will? _ But then the boy looks up and Dylan sees that his eyes are brown, not blue.

“Help...me….” he whimpers. He clutches his mouth, struck by a bout of coughing. When he removes his sleeve, it comes away red. “Help...me…” 

Then, he slumps, still as a stone.

Dylan scrabbles away from the corpse, but there’s no escaping the human agony that closes in on all sides. 

“DAD!  _ WILL! _ ” he screams. It’s no use. He can’t even hear his own thoughts in the din, the madness. But he holds onto hope like a lifeline, a scarlet string that pulls him to the light at the end of the tunnel. 

He braces himself against a brick wall. Metal shards press against his palms. He takes a moment to catch his breath, to try to stop the world from spinning. His vision blurs, and flashes of orange and black dance before him. 

Two rough hands lift him up, and all he can think is,  _ for a dead person, this feels surprisingly solid _ .

“Sake. Take the kid and put him with the others.” He’s weightless for a moment, tossed in the air.  _ This must be what it feels like to fly _ , he ponders as darkness clouds his sight. All he sees before he passes out is red, red, red.

_ iii // gray _

Grief is gray. Numb, overwhelming clouds of ash, seeping into wounds like molasses. For Will, it comes in waves. It hits him like dominoes falling over, victim to gravity.

Rafael.

Dylan.

The Sinclairs.

Now, his mother.

He doesn’t want to believe it. He wants to cover his ears and curl into a ball when his father says, “She only has a few months left.” 

How could she leave him? After everything they’d tried? There had to be something he could do. Something, anything. He would kneel at the throne of the devil and repent for his sins if it meant he could save someone, just this once.

It’s desperation that carries him to the doorstep of The Dragon’s Blood. There are no fewer rumors about the place than there are stars in the sky. They whisper that the apothecary is a front for Phantom Scythe drug cartels, that it lures in miscreants and merchants with its fumes, only to run them dry of cash and breath. But there are also whispers of miracles, of patients brought back from the brink of death. And a miracle is exactly what he needs.

The heavy wooden door opens soundlessly. Will pulls the black hood over his head as he enters. He would be dead if his identity were revealed. He’s heard that the folks in Greychapel don’t take too lightly to cops.

The interior of the Dragon’s Blood is all dark oak and brick. Hundreds of clear bottles sit, full of various aromatic herbs and concoctions, on shelves on the walls. Will notes the labels stuck on the bottles, ranging from the ordinary--chamomile, aloe vera, and ginger root--to the baffling--snakeskin, ground ivory, and a vial of bright blue liquid that simply reads, “DO NOT DRINK.” Tucked in the corner is a curved counter in front of a curtained doorway that likely leads to a storage room.

“Welcome to the Dragon’s Blood,” the doctor says, standing stiffly behind the counter. Her voice is monotone and muffled behind her beak-like mask. “How can we help you?”

“My mother is ill. We’ve tried everything we can, but her condition only seems to be getting worse.” he answers bitterly.

“Her symptoms?”

“She’s deathly pale and gaunt. And she--” his heart throbs “--she seems to be having problems with her memory.” 

“Hmm.” The doctor scribbles something on a notepad. “Has she developed jaundice?”

“No.”

“How about severe muscle weakness?”

“I believe so.”

She asks him more questions, and Will feels like he’s in the interrogation room back at the APD. Only, he’s on the wrong side of the table. He doesn’t see how the doctor can figure out what was wrong from a few simple questions, but he answers them anyways.

“Wait here,” the doctor tells him, stepping behind the curtain. She returns with a small orange bottle. “Have her take two pills every morning and evening. Come back when you need a refill.”

He thanks her and passes over a few banknotes. He tucks the medicine in his coat pocket and leaves wordlessly.

Night has fallen on Greychapel, and he looks around, taking in the shadows that dance like specters on every street corner.

Perhaps it's his fatigue that makes him careless, because no sooner than he walks ten steps does he feel cold metal plunge into his shoulder. He hisses at the pain.

He reaches for his gun, then curses when his hand meets empty air. Why didn’t he bring his gun? Hooded figures close in on him, swimming before his eyes after a blunt object slams against the back of his head. He’d never put much thought into how he would die, but he sure hoped it wouldn’t be here.

As he slips from consciousness, he thinks of the boy with gray eyes and silver hair, who taught him about the beauty of life.

“I’m sorry, Dylan.”

_ iv // gold _

Fate is a fickle thing, indeed.

Dylan becomes a doctor, just not in the way he imagined. The Phantom Scythe loves bloodshed like flowers love the sun, and they teach him to clean up their messes, to bandage their wounds. For every life he saves, he takes another as frontman to the Scythe’s despicable operation: robbing the vulnerable of their minds and their coins through the human inclination toward addiction.

His arms hang heavily as he works the key in the lock to the back door of the Dragon’s Blood. He hates the night shift. It’s when the more  _ unsavory _ clients arrive.

He sighs as he takes off his gloves, switches out his newsboy cap for a plague doctor’s mask. “Evening, Sullivan,” he calls out to his coworker. “How was business?”

Silence.

“Sullivan?” he tries again.

“Rosenthal! Come quick, someone’s been injured!”

“Injured? What happened-”

He gets his answer in the form of a limp body carried in the arms of Sullivan. There’s a streak of red on her gray coat that he suspects doesn’t belong to her. Together, they lay the body gently down on the wooden floor.

“One of our customers. Came in earlier and just now, I found him knocked out in the middle of the street.”

“Was he drunk?” he asks.

“Nah, he was probably jumped. Robbed, too, by the look of it.”

“Where is the blood coming from?”

“His shoulder. Around the collarbone.”

“Huh.” Dylan leans forward to get a better look at the gash. It’s deep, and white peeks through the pink. During the transfer into the apothecary, the customer’s hood has fallen, letting Dylan also get a good glimpse at his face. Wavy blond locks grace his head, but deep eyebags droop beneath his closed eyes. When they open for a brief moment, Dylan sees that his irises are sapphire blue and  _ familiar _ .

_ Wait- _

He knows those eyes. Knows them like he knows the symptoms of internal bleeding, like he knows the proper procedures for setting a broken bone. Knows them like the bottles of powder and ingredients for remedies that sit on his shelves. But unlike his vials of copper sulfate and methylene, this blue is priceless. A jewel he’ll keep in a guarded vault, only to admire from afar. 

He’s been gone for a decade. He wonders if Will even remembers who he is. Surely, he’s moved on by now. Forged new friendships, found a new love. Hot tears trickle down his face as he applies bandages and cream to the wound. Tenderly, he cups Will’s face and thinks of all the unspoken words between them.

He should be the happiest man on earth to see Will again, but now he knows how Midas felt when his roses turned to gold--beautiful, but cold and lifeless. 

Because gold roses, no matter the love you give them, will never love you back.

**Author's Note:**

> me: shoot i'm running out of things that are blue, how about *rummages in chemistry lab kit* uhhh copper sulfate and methylene blue


End file.
